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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25518919">Field Notes of the (un)Dead</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight'>ravenslight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bisexual Theo Nott, F/M, Fatalistic Language, Fudging Ages, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Time Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:48:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25518919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Myrtle doesn’t die, Tom Riddle doesn’t get the diadem, and Theo Nott is in way over his head—and high out of his mind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott, Theodore Nott/Moaning Myrtle, Theodore Nott/Myrtle Warren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dumbledore's Armada: Wheel of Death Flash Fiction Comp</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Field Notes of the (un)Dead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Wheel of Death Flash Fiction Comp hosted by Frumpologist in Dumbledore's Armada Discord Server. My chosen character was Moaning Myrtle/Myrtle Warren. My Wheel of Death prompts were as follows:</p><p><b>Character:</b> Theodore Nott<br/><b>Trope:</b> Time Travel<br/><b>Theme:</b> Illusions of Power<br/><b>Quote:</b> “Instant gratification takes too long.” - Carrie Fisher</p><p>Huge thanks to In_Dreams for her beta prowess on this!</p><p>
  <i>
    <b> Winner of the OMG How Did You Make That Work Award </b>
  </i>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Myrtle is sitting on the second toilet in from the door in the second floor girls’ lavatory when she decides that she’s abso-fucking-lutely done with Tom Riddle’s bullshit.</p><p>She’s angry. Miserable. Sniffing, she lifts her leg to look at the foot that had fallen into the toilet when she scrambled up to crouch, hidden, on the seat. <em> Wet </em>. </p><p>As if her thoughts summoned him, the lavatory door opens, and measured footsteps denote his entrance.</p><p>“Oh, Myrtle, I do so love it when you run from me.” His voice is velvet soft, disarming in its allure. </p><p>She hates him.</p><p>His footsteps stop just outside her door, the tips of his expensive dragonhide shoes visible under the door, and she wants to spit on them, rail against him and his stupid, self-satisfied smirk. She can almost feel the brush of his fingers over the wood grain as he whispers, “You’re my favourite game to play.” </p><p>It’s like this every time, cat and mouse. She hides, helpless and angry, as he stalks her. But not anymore.</p><p>She’s not daft, and she’d rather die <em> doing </em>something instead of waiting for him to off her and becoming a footnote in his story.</p><p>A visit from the very unfashionable elder Dumbledore had ensured that when he offered her a Time-Turner and warnings of her death via enormous hellish snake.</p><p>No thanks.</p><p>Myrtle sniffs again. She’d be a rather dreadful ghost.</p><p>She fingers the Time-Turning as she slides free of her perch and sniffs again.</p><p>One long jump. That’s all it will provide. </p><p>With a bit of dumb luck, it’s all she will need.</p>
<hr/><p>“I will make six.” Tom Riddle's voice echoes over the stones in the prefects’ bathroom, ominous.</p><p>But he’s only a man yet, and she shakes the fear away as she creeps forward.</p><p>A group stands around him in the low candlelight. All masked, but she can tell they’re young. How pathetic that he must recruit schoolchildren to assist his plans</p><p>“Once I dispose of the Ravenclaw Mudblood who cannot keep her nose to herself, I’ll be free to move forward,” he said, and the answering din of laughter runs Myrtle’s blood cold.</p><p>Why Dumbledore thought it prudent to allow him to continue visiting the castle was beyond Myrtle, but she waits patiently. </p><p>Finally, one of the shuffling cronies croaks, “Pardon me, sir Volder-mort—”</p><p>“<em> Lord Voldemort </em>, you imbecile,” Riddle snaps. Myrtle can hear his voice break with angry spittle. The mirror over his shoulder cracks at the force of his anger.</p><p>She waits, seething, blooming.</p><p>“L-Lord Voldemort,” he stammers. “But six what?”</p><p>A feral grin spreads over his lips, refracted in the mirror tenfold. It’s horrific, disfiguring his visage until his eyes turn into snakelike slits in the smallest panes of glass, nose indiscernible. “Horcruxes, Pettigrew. Six horcruxes, each containing a fragment of my soul, three of which will be placed in the founders’ items. A seventh will reside in my flesh.” He flexes his hand around his wand, arcing it through the air as though he could illustrate his aspirations. </p><p>An idea formulates in her mind, and Myrtle backs out of the prefects’ baths and breaks into a run, her mind whirling through the information. </p><p>Pride. Tom Riddle operates on pride and depriving him of one part of his equation could very well be his ruination. It’s a calculated risk.</p><p>The Grey Lady floats upon a parapet, her face tipped back mournfully under the moonlight. She’s beautiful, but Myrtle can’t spare the time to admire the witch. </p><p>She shifts from foot to foot then whispers, “Helena!”</p><p>The ghost turns to her, face carefully blank. “Yes?”</p><p>For a moment, Myrtle’s request lodges in her throat, unease at the perceived betrayal. “Your mother’s diadem—you hid it. Why?”</p><p>A ripple of a sneer passes over the ghost’s face. It’s subtle, but it warps her easy beauty. “My mother thought she was so <em> clever </em> , so <em> important </em>. She needed to learn.”</p><p>Myrtle presses onward. “Someone seeks to defile it with dark magic. I want to destroy it.”</p><p>Helena eyes her suspiciously. “Why should I trust you?”</p><p>“We both hate Tom Riddle.” The words escape, honest and sharp. Myrtle cringes.</p><p>A slow smile spreads across Helena’s face. “Albania. In a hollow tree. That is all I can spare,” Helena utters, already floating away into her sorrow again.</p><p>Myrtle smiles, triumphant. It’s enough. “Thank you,” she whispers, already fleeing towards the castle doors.</p><p>When she reaches the edge of Hogwarts’ grounds, she observes the castle once and then spins into Apparition with one thought in her mind: she wants Tom Riddle dead.</p>
<hr/><p>Theo lies on the floor of the second floor girls’ lavatory. A joint smokes in his hand, mundane sounds of a school day echoing outside the door. Firsties shout. Prefects scold. Professors lecture. The banal sounds of existence blend together, and Draco Malfoy motions for the blunt lazily.</p><p>“Instant gratification takes too long,” Theo drawls, handing off the joint. </p><p>“What load of shit are you trying to sell?” Draco settles the blunt between his pillow-soft lips, drawing in a careful pull. He exhales. Soft. Sensual. </p><p>Theo rearranges himself. Errant thoughts do not a friend make. </p><p>He studies the ceiling. The crown moulding is chipped, discoloured and craggy in a way that reminds Theo of the mottled bruising his father leaves spider webbing across his skin. </p><p>“Instant gratification takes too long,” Theo mutters again, gaze tracing a particularly engaging crack up the far wall and along the top of the window. It’s daring in its embrace, curling into the very veins of the castle. He accepts the proffered joint from Draco again. Takes a draw. Hates the way his eyes flutter shut at the remnants of Draco he swears he can taste. “I want more. Every time.”</p><p>Only he is aware of the double entendre.</p><p>He can hear the eye roll in Draco’s response. “So take more. Problem solved.” </p><p>A tin can clatters between them, and Theo nearly reaches for it. Nearly closes his palm around the squat metal edges. It would be easy.</p><p>Scrabble his fingers over the blunt edges. Pry it open with ruined fingernails. Sift through the pills and the hash until he finds the <em> one </em>orb which will send him into the stars again. Perhaps for the last time. He’d love for it to be the last time. </p><p>If he doesn’t examine it too closely, then the sentiment isn’t all that frightening.</p><p>Somewhere among the toilets, a loud clattering noise sounds, followed by a gasp and a splash of water.</p><p>Draco groans. “Miserable, Moaning Myrtle at it again.” His fingers scrabble over Theo’s bare flesh, and the skittering motion over his Dark Mark sends a nameless ripple of emotion down Theo’s spine. “Honestly, is it so much to ask for some godsdamned peace and—” </p><p>When Draco drags the joint away from his fingertips, Theo can breathe again, and his eyes flutter open.</p><p>And he freezes.</p><p>Visceral and quick, shock lances through him and steals the very breath he just drew in him.</p><p>Moaning Myrtle leans over the pair of them, a furrow between her very corporeal brows.</p><p>Theo carefully extends a hand to Draco, too stoned to do much else. “Mate,” he says from the corner of his lips, “I think we’re dead.”</p><p>Draco snorts, dragging in a long hit, holding it in his chest, and then blowing the smoke in Theo’s face when he turns to look at him. “Unlikely. It’s just good hash.”</p><p>Warning bells sound distantly in the very fuzzy part of Theo’s brain that tells him something isn’t quite right. “You’re dead,” he tells her, trying to force the spinning in his head away.</p><p>Myrtle cocks her head, eyeing him suspiciously. “What year is it?”</p><p>Draco startles upright, the joint falling to the ground as he lifts his hands to scrub at his face. “What in Slytherin’s—”</p><p>A hiss leaves the girl’s throat, and she backs away, lifting an aspen wand directly into Draco’s face. “You have <em> his </em>mark.” She whips her head to Theo. “What year is it?” she asks again, harsh and clipped. </p><p>Theo forces the cogs in his brain to compute how to speak with the dead. “Er… 1996?”</p><p>“1996,” she breathes, a manic smile on her face. “Brilliant.”</p><p>For the first time, Theo notices the object clasped in her free hand. Round and inlaid with brilliant sapphires, Theo is transfixed by its beauty—like his fixation with Draco, he’s always enjoyed the finer things—and he lifts his hand slowly. </p><p>In the movement, two things become clear to him. </p><p>This Myrtle is very much living—or he has, as his first observation, ascended to an astral existence. A quick glance at the ground reveals he has not vacated his body.</p><p>Then, a bizarre warmth washes over his body, and he stares, transfixed as the Dark Mark on his arm begins to dissolve.</p><p>It’s the joint—it has to be with the witch and the Mark. Draco slipped something into the mixture to make the high more intense. But the other boy hisses and glances down at his forearm, eyes wide and fearful. The mark is gone.</p><p>Theo likes to consider himself pragmatic. Overly so, if he’s honest. He has timetables for his timetables, and taking the Dark Mark at Draco’s encouragement is probably the most reckless thing he’s done in his entire life. Watching it leave his flesh frees a crushing weight from his chest. But this— </p><p>“I did it,” Myrtle whispers triumphantly. She crowds into his space, grasping his wrist and staring at the unmarred expanse of skin. “Take that, Tom Riddle, you useless sack of shit.”  </p><p>Theo’s free hand finds the back of his head. He’s suddenly, starkly aroused by her confidence and confounded by the notion. Finally, he splutters, “<em> What? </em>”  </p><p>Myrtle draws her shoulders back. “My name is Myrtle Warren.” She gestures to the metal tiara in her hand. “This is Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem, I arrived here via Time Turner, and I just shattered Tom Riddle’s grand illusions of power and immortality. Pleasure to meet you.” </p><p>Bewildered, he sticks his hand out to grasp hers despite the information overload. “Pleasure?” </p><p>“Right. I’ll just go deliver this to Dumbledore, then.” She brandishes the diadem before she turns towards the door, striding away with all the confidence in the world. But then she pauses at the threshold, whirling around and crossing the room to stand in his space again. </p><p>Theo is shocked still again, staring at her face. He’d never noticed her eyes before—although it <em> is </em> difficult to tell the colour of ghosts, he rationalises—and he finds himself entranced by the swirling hues of gold that twine with the deep brown around her irises. He’s in way over his head already. “Er, hello?”</p><p>Myrtle tosses a wink at him. “See you around?”</p><p>Mechanically, Theo nods, lost for words. Finally, he manages, “Alright, then.” </p><p>It’s apparently enough of an agreement that she turns and leaves to find Professor Dumbledore.</p><p>Draco is still half-reclined on the floor. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he lifts the still-smouldering blunt to his lips and takes another long drag. Draco exhales on a swear. “Fuckin’ witches, mate.” </p><p>Slowly, Theo lowers himself to the floor. He stretches his legs out before himself, crossing his ankles right over left. His hands settle behind him, the cold stone a welcome reprieve from his heated confusion. </p><p>He likes this version of Myrtle. Spirited. Spunky. Sassy.</p><p>When Draco passes him the blunt again, Theo doesn’t shudder over the taste of his mate lingering on the paper.</p><p>He’s not sure if he’s imagined her, but his head is full of the ghost turned witch from the past.</p><p>Studying the craggy ceiling as a smirk spreads over his lips, he lifts his unmarked arm, admiring the blank skin, and then raises a one-fingered salute to the snake-nosed bastard that marked him.</p><p>Before he drifts into welcome oblivion, he makes a mental note to get to know this new Myrtle Warren.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>thank you for reading this bit of silliness!</i>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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